


The Language of Flowers

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [7]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Adorable, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Angst and Humor, Awkward Flirting, Cemetery, Class Differences, Class Issues, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cute, Drama, Falling In Love, Family Feels, First Meetings, Florists, Flowers, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, Lawyers, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Memories, Mutual Pining, Opposites Attract, Past Character Death, Romance, Sarcasm, Sassy, Sentimental, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy is a florist with an attitude. Harry is a lawyer with a conscience. Flowers bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Flowers

* * *

 

It was a miserable Thursday afternoon. Rain had turned the pavement outside the shop into a slippery death-trap, which meant that people scurried gingerly past the covered flower stand, concentrating on not braining themselves rather than appreciating the flowers.

Consequently, today’s sales were nearly nonexistent. Only a particularly harried husband desperate for a last-minute anniversary gift had ducked in and out, but otherwise, the shop had been as empty as a museum during an unpopular exhibit.

Eggsy sighed, slumping over the register, tapping idly at the keys.

“I’m taking a break,” Roxy said, shrugging off her apron and revealing her Metallica T-shirt. Her eyebrow piercings glinted dully in the watery light that came through the window, and she dug in the back pocket of her jeans for her usually-crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Outside,” Eggsy said, jerking his thumb toward the rear exit, and Roxy snorted.

“I get it, Mum. I won’t do anything to hurt the flowers.”

“Oi,” objected Eggsy, half-heartedly, because his protectiveness of the flowers was a professional necessity, not a maternal instinct. Despite Roxy insisting on calling it that.

Roxy departed, ostensibly to chain-smoke under the dubious protection of the steel shed behind the shop, where they kept their spare buckets and hoses and rubbish bins.

Alone in the shop, Eggsy decided to prune his favorites in the bonsai display—the delicate little Japanese Elm and the perpetually annoyed-looking Trident Maple. (It had to do with the pointy shapes of its leaves; it just looked aggressive and generally pissed off with the world, which was why Eggsy liked it. It reminded him of himself.)

Eggsy was trimming the Elm when the bell tinkled, and Eggsy blinked, startled, at the man standing at the entrance to the shop. He was tall, middle-aged and broad in the shoulders, and was collapsing an umbrella big enough to shelter a small village.

He was also dressed in a flawless bespoke suit that got on Eggsy’s nerves, because it indicated that this bloke never had to worry about money. Must be great.

“I beg your pardon,” said the man, adjusting his elegant, black-rimmed glasses, “but may I lean my umbrella against the door?”

“Better than letting it drip all over the floor,” Eggsy muttered, and immediately felt bad, because this was exactly the sort of attitude that Mum said put off potential customers. “Sorry,” he said, making a mental note to purchase a coatrack for patrons to hang umbrellas and scarves on. If it could fit into the monthly budget, that is. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

The man seemed amused at Eggsy’s grudging politeness, which irked Eggsy even more, because the bastard was handsome, too, like being rich wasn’t enough, and the hint of a smile on his lips made him more attractive than he had any right to be.

“What’re you here for?” Eggsy… didn’t snap. No. It was a polite question. It _was_.

“Flowers,” answered the man, deadpan, as if he was deliberately trying to—to what? Irritate Eggsy? Flirt with him? Flirt with him irritatingly?

“What. Type?” Eggsy asked, slowly, just in case the fellow was as daft as his behavior suggested.

And just like that, the man’s almost-smile vanished. “Zinnias,” he said, shortly.

What had Zinnias ever done to him? Eggsy had a policy of not trusting anyone that didn’t like flowers, and his dislike of this rich, handsome flower-hater ratcheted up another notch. “What for?”

“Do you always interrogate your customers?” asked the man. “You’d do wonderfully as a prosecutor grilling an unwilling witness.”

“You’re a lawyer,” Eggsy said, flatly. Of course he was.

“Harry Hart, at your service.” The man held out a fancy, gilt-edged business card, which Eggsy didn’t take.

“Right,” said Eggsy, indifferently. “What do you want those Zinnias for, then, _Harry_?”

“You talk as if I’m thinking of kidnapping your daughters and selling them off to human traffickers.” Some of the amusement had reentered Harry’s features, and Eggsy glared at them, unfairly attractive as they were. “I want them for a friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

A sadness entered Harry’s dark, unfathomable eyes. “The dead kind.”

Oh.

“I don’t hate Zinnias,” Harry said, quietly, like he’d been reading Eggsy’s mind all along. “I simply hate my reasons for getting them.”

Bugger. “Um,” said Eggsy, despising his own awkwardness as he walked jerkily toward the Zinnias, whose round, bright, innocent faces made him ashamed of his mistrusting nature. “I. I’m sorry, I—”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Your love of flowers is charming. Don’t apologize for it.”

But what about Eggsy’s hatred of humanity? He probably ought to apologize for that, or at least give an explanation for his behavior. “I wasn’t… grilling you.” _I just needed to ensure that the Zinnias would be taken care of_ , Eggsy didn’t say, because that definitely would make him out to be the mother hen Roxy said he was. Instead, he said, “I always ask questions. So I can pick the appropriate colors and, um, design the appropriate arrangements.” 

Well. That was the most pathetic excuse in history.

Harry was gracious enough to pretend like it wasn’t, though. He nodded seriously, his attention fixed on the Zinnias, which made Eggsy feel guiltier. Fuck, this was a horrible Thursday.

“I’ll take the yellow ones,” Harry said, eventually, surprising Eggsy. “Since I remember him everyday.”

Eggsy stared. “You know the language of flowers,” he said, disbelievingly, because this was such a swift and total reversal of Eggsy’s perceptions of the man that it was giving him whiplash.

“I,” and Harry _blushed_ , dear god, “I don’t, not really. I just studied it for a bit, years ago, when I was deciding what flowers to start leaving at my friend’s grave. I chose the Zinnias, and I’ve stuck to them ever since.”

Eggsy briefly considered carving his own heart out of his chest with his sharpest pair of shears, just so it would stop pounding stupidly.

“Good,” he said, inanely. “Good choice. That’s. I’ll just. Vase, box, plastic or paper wrapping…?”

“A vase, please. I’d like them to last.”

Eggsy arranged the Zinnias into a cheerful burst of sunniness, which might’ve been at odds with their purpose as flowers of grieving, but Eggsy had to do something to get that sadness out of Harry’s eyes. He just—he had to.

“Thank you,” said Harry, at the end, and he did look happier, that almost-smile making a reappearance. “You really adore them, don’t you?”

“Them?”

“The flowers. You have these strong, solid hands, but you handled the Zinnias so tenderly.”

Harry had been checking out Eggsy’s hands. Maybe he wasn’t as hung up on his dead boyfriend as he sounded.

And maybe Eggsy was being an arsehole.

“Have a nice…” Grave-visit? Moment of mourning? “…day,” he said, after the payment had been sorted out and the vase was tucked carefully into the crook of Harry’s elbow. Eggsy was on the verge of offering to open Harry’s monstrous umbrella for him, only to realize that it had stopped raining, fat droplets tip-tapping off the eaves and onto the footpath. How had Eggsy not noticed, until now?

“I will, thank you,” Harry said, warmly, as though Eggsy hadn’t been putting his foot in his mouth at the rate of five times a minute, throughout their entire acquaintance. “The florist I ordinarily buy from is closer to my office, but is, unfortunately, shutting down. I hope you don’t mind if I frequent you.”

 _You can frequent me all you like_ , Eggsy thought, replacing “frequent” with another handy f-word, and promptly went red at what he was picturing. Harry was about to visit a _grave_. Didn’t Eggsy have any decency? “If, that is, if you. Find it convenient. Yeah. Sure.”

Harry left, and Eggsy stood there, arms dangling uselessly by his sides, until Roxy returned, peered at his still-red face, and said: “Bloody hell, Unwin. Did you finally pop a stiffy for a flower?”

Worst. Fucking. Thursday.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who Harry’s dead friend is? Wait, don’t bother guessing.
> 
> In the language of flowers, yellow Zinnias signify daily remembrance.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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